Disclaimer~ I am not laying ownership to Thranduil, Oropher, or anything that was created by JRR Tolkien’s genious. I deeply respect his creativity and I would never steal anything that he put passion into creating. All due respect. 😉


3441, the Second Age
End of the war of the Last Alliance
†Taken from the journal of King Thranduil Nostasiiir†

The sun burned the morning sky a rich crimson red – a color that I have seen all to much. I looked toward the sunlight. A forlorn silhouette was standing alone in the path of the light. The tattered banner of my kingdom flapped through the breeze in ethereal motion. It’s edges were torn, the shredded threads flailing about in the air. Upon the banner were stains of deep red splotches and smears on it’s proud designs – stains in the shape of desperate handprints which have clung to the banner in their last attempts to keep it standing; to keep it from falling in the hands of the enemy. Yet even after they were gone, the banner for which they fought so desperately for still stood; wedged between the carcass of their enemy and their own corpse which they have sacrificed. Bodies like that were many upon that forsaken battlefield. It was the morning after the great Battle of Dagorlad.
I took shallow, hesitant breaths which were hindered by my stuttering tears as I stepped gingerly around the bodies of Men, Orcs, and my own people – Elves. Some of which laid side by side, weapons embedded into the other; their faces still screaming in silent agony. It was as if they had been frozen where they stood, paused into a single moment in time. Those whom laid dead were people I knew for ages – people who I have laughed with, shared dreams with, and merely hours ago; spoke of Valinor beyond the sea with, to give each other something to look forward to if the worst should happen. Which happened to many. When I came across the fallen whom I knew, I turned away. The grief was all too near; it was all too real.
So few had survived that night. I saw several hundred paces away, and scattered apart, those like me who had survived. Some of which were doing just as I, standing in awe at the death and destruction war had brought. Some kneeling by the dead whom they knew, grieving inconsolably as their melancholic cries echoed throughout the barren plain.
Why had I survived when so many others have fallen? There must be a reason I was allowed to live. Too many of my kind had died. They were me – they were the same age, the same race, had the same ambitions. They were me – and they were dead.
I had lost so many of my people, so much death surrounded me in that moment that I had forgotten my father. My father! I remembered then, just before the fateful battle, father had gotten in a fierce clash with Gil-galad over each other’s different battle plans. Father’s resentment for the Noldor was still fresh and smoldering in his heart as coals right after a stifled fire. Coals which, when provoked, could easily become a wildfire once again. Gil-galad had cursed Oropher then, and given up on his argument. “My people, the good Silvans whom have taken me to king will follow no other command but mine,” I remember father saying fiercely, “Shameless are the Noldor yet even now in the presence of Sindar blood! Try as you might, the Noldor will never take command of my people!” I myself thought father’s battle-plan was slightly dangerous if not reckless, and I had seen Gil-galad’s plan as a much safer one. But I had not forgiven Gil-galad for cursing my father, and it may be by that ill-fated curse that my father was killed so soon.
I had come upon the body of my father, which laid on his side at the base of another tattered banner – the banner that he had held at the start of the battle. That was our largest and most regal flag. It was the one that was made first. Father’s helmet was laying at his side, his sword in his hand. There was impaled straight through his body a broad iron orc-blade. He was killed instantly in the first assault, and I had seen him fall. When Amdir Malgalad’s host got separated and chased into the plains, we had turned to go and aid them, forgetting the Noldor who went their separate way into Mordor. Father had been surrounded by orcs and other terrible abominations, and I could not aid him. My mind raced to the story he had told me of his father Elorn’s death, and this was eerily reminiscent of it. I had seen the orcs pull him off his horse. I had seen the blade plunged through his body. I had seen him fall to his knees, the demonic orcs taunting him as his spirit fled. I struggled to him, But I was brought away by the oncoming flow of orcs. That night was felled Oropher, the greatest prince of the Sindar.
Words cannot explain the pain I felt that moment; to see my father brutally slaughtered before my very eyes. Even here, in my journal, I find it difficult to describe. It was like a blow to the stomach, I couldn’t breathe. My heart pounded in my ears like drums. Time stood still, and the motion of every living thing was brought to a slow, frame-by-frame stillness. I screamed his name, my voice broken and miserable, echoing over the plain like some dying raven taking its last flight before it falls dead upon the dust. As his spirit fled, father heard my voice last, and turned his eyes to me. He held up his sword Makthakoth one last time, and fell to the barren earth. The banner in his hand plunging into the ground next to him. I was in terror. Finally out of the ashes of shock and denial, vengeance and uncontrollable wrath exploded within me. My sword Bodruith vibrated in my hand; It was starved of revenge. I fought violently and without mercy that night. I had slain many orcs and demons as the night pressed on, as the main host of Noldor forced their way into Mordor and encompassed Barad-dûr, and held it siege. But my army and Amdir’s were left behind in the field of Dagorlad. That night, an entire third of my army were obliterated. Just in one battle.
I realized then, as I knelt by my father’s lifeless body, that I was the new king of Greenwood. I looked at his sword – the same sword that Elorn of ancient Doriath wielded. And it’s master shared his father’s same fate. I took up his sword, and bore away his body. I then took out my horn and called all the survivors of Dagorlad. They came to me, and at the sight of Oropher who laid dead upon a pyre that I had built, they lost heart and grieved.
Amroth, son of Amdir was sharing my same pain, for his father was the king of Lothlorien and had been slain, leaving him to take his father’s place. We built a pyre for lord Amdir aside my father’s. Amroth took his father’s sword as I did mine, and as their bodies were burnt, Amroth and I recited the oaths of the king, that we should guide our people in the stead of our fallen fathers, and strive to reach the honor that our fathers have beyond exceeded.
I had discovered after the cremation that ten of father’s counselors had fallen too that night, ten of the fifteen that were of pure Sindar blood. Only five survived, and as we gathered the bodies of the fallen counselors, we burnt them together upon one big pyre, and the flame was seen for miles around, further summoning any survivors that had not heard the horn.
As those few people saw me holding my father’s eagle-blade, they knew that Oropher had fallen, and I his son was their new lord. I then said, “We will join the main host that has abandoned us in these plains. They have laid siege on the tower of Barad-dûr. While there is still a number of our army we will offer aid as we can. Peace cannot be restored until the Dark Lord himself is defeated. I will keep to my father’s will as my first deed of kingship.” so I led them into Mordor, as would my father if he did not fall. He would not rest until he has seen Sauron destroyed. Until he had seen the destruction of the one who had brought mighty Doriath to ruin.
I came upon the tattered banner which stood where my father fell. I took it, and held it high as I led my army into Mordor. The ragged threads flying about in the breeze, the smears of blood and the slashes through the sewn material, were battle scars that were worn proudly and painfully. That banner reflected my heart, and the hearts of my people. That very banner still adorns the Throne Room of my palace – and has not been touched since; the shreds and blood yet intact.
When Gil-galad saw us as we marched into the Black Land, he was filled with sorrow and remorse. So few of us had survived the last battle when at the start there were so many of us. Gil-galad had come up to me as I rode at the head of my army, and just ere he could speak, I said, “My people fight alone. We will not seek the futile aid of the Noldor. My father is dead, and I will not forgive you for cursing him ere the battle began. I will lead my people in what way seems best to me.” Gil-galad spoke no further to me until near the end of that war.
Seven long years passed as siege was laid still upon Barad-dûr. Several times we were attacked by armies that the Dark Lord sent upon us. Nazgûl were the worst. They picked us off and our numbers were lessened all the more. My army was decreasing, until they were cut down to a half of what my father originally led. I was becoming fearful, but I fought on. I wondered about Vinyarëwen who lingered at home. Had she known the siege would last this long? There was no way of letting her know. In times of stillness in the evil land, I thought of my father. The grief was so close, so near, that even now – seven years later – I still mourn his passing. Could I ever be as great a king as Oropher and Elorn before me? As my people’s numbers decreased, I began to worry terribly that I had made a grave mistake. After the battle of Dagorlad, I should have led those who survived back to Greenwood instead of taking them into further peril in the Black Land? I was becoming afraid that my foolishness was to bring disgrace to our family, and the end to it. Amroth’s people were decreasing as well, and he had thought the very same thing. We were like brothers in that war. He thought often of his lover Nimrodel, just as I did Vinyarëwen. We suffered the same losses, and fought at each other’s side to avenge them. But in my heart, I quailed for the sake of my people. I could not turn back now. The fateful Black Gates were shut, and the other passes were perilous.
At last, the day of reckoning had come after the long siege of the Dark Tower. Sauron had come forth himself, striking first the host of the Noldor and Men. The Dark Lord let loose his strongest army whom he had hidden in his tower. Though my people were on the opposite end of the assault, I saw the dire need of the Noldor and Men who were being attacked. I was filled with dread, and I feared for them. With Amroth at my side, we led our few people to the aid of the Noldor, though they had deserted us on the plains of Dagorlad seven years back.
We attacked the host of Sauron from the rear, but Gil-galad and Elendil were slain just ere my armies could reach them. It was a bloody battle, and my people’s numbers were reduced to a mere third of the original host that my father led at the start of the war. At last, Isildur cut the Ring from the Dark Lord’s finger, and Sauron’s spirit fled, and all that was under his reign evanesced. The Black Gates were thrust open, and the armies of Elves and Men left the deserted land of Mordor.
I came upon Gil-Galad who was dying and he said to me, “I was wrong about your father, Thranduil. He was a honorable king. I was wrong to curse him.” Gil-galad died then, and I forgave him. As I summoned the remaining number of my people, who were grievously few, I led them out of Mordor and back to Greenwood. So few had survived. Two thirds of the original host had been obliterated. As I came upon the grave of my father, which was now a patch of wildflowers amidst the barren plain, I held up his sword. He would not be forgotten. The Sceptre of Elorn, which was his ancient sword, was in the hands of his son. His son who will ever strive for his father’s glory.
But looking back at the Black Land behind me, I felt inside that victory was not wholly achieved. Though Sauron fled his body and fortress, he was not defeated. In my heart I knew that his wickedness would rise again. The One Ring was not destroyed, and victory in this war was not yet achieved. But looking again at the desperately slight remainder of my people, I knew that I could never lead them into another war of this extent again for a very, very long time. I turned by gaze north and did not look back.

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